The Dragonfly

by Kate Dunn

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Kate Dunn comes from a long line of writers and actors.

  Her books include: Exit Through the Fireplace: The Great Days of Rep, Do Not Adjust Your Set: The Early Days of Live Television and Always and Always: the Wartime Letters of Hugh and Margaret Williams (John Murray) and the novels Rebecca’s Children (Headline) and The Line Between Us (Endeavour Press).

  THE DRAGONFLY

  First published in the UK in 2017 by

  Aurora Metro Books

  67 Grove Avenue, Twickenham, TW1 4HX

  www.aurorametro.cominfo@aurorametro.com

  The Dragonfly © copyright 2017 Kate Dunn

  Cover design © copyright 2017 Greg Jorss

  www.upsidecreative.com.au/

  Additional design: Jack Dunn

  Editor: Cheryl Robson

  Production: Simon Smith

  Aurora Metro Books would like to thank Matthew Rhys Daniel and Ivett Saliba.

  We are grateful for the sponsorship of The Virginia Prize to ea Change Group.

  www.eacg.co.uk

  All rights are strictly reserved. For rights enquiries please contact the publisher: rights@aurorametro.com

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  In accordance with Section 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, Kate Dunn asserts her moral right to be identified as the author of the above work.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Printed by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY.

  Ebook conversion by Swift ProSys.

  ISBNs:

  978-1-911501-03-9 (print)

  978-1-911501-04-6 (ebook)

  THE DRAGONFLY

  KATE DUNN

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My thanks to Cheryl Robson, Andrew Walby, Ellen Cheshire and Simon Smith at Aurora Metro for their dedication to publishing emerging women writers – I’m lucky to be a beneficiary of their commitment; to my agent Laura Longrigg for her indefatigable faith in me and to my husband Steve and my mum Prue for holding me close while I was writing.

  Zita Adamson, Carole Pugh and my uncle Simon Williams have all been readers of early drafts of The Dragonfly and have given me constructive criticism and encouragement at every turn, which made all the difference in the world.

  Any nautical mistakes in the book are entirely my own, and my husband and I have committed a good many others while racketing around the European waterways. I’m more grateful than I can say to Phil and Maja Rollings for sharing so many of the adventures with us, and to Prue; Hilary and Lily; Tom, Stella, Gabriel and Louis; Judith and Steve; Jed – and Jack, my boy, for holding the ropes in the locks, getting the croissants in the morning, being good humoured in a crisis and sharing a medicinal glass of wine on deck when the day is done.

  For Steve,

  My north, south, east and best.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Along the cobbled quay the Paris sunshine lay as lightly as a leaf. Colin stood on the wooden pontoon, listening to the gossipy sound of the boats as they fretted and strained against their moorings. He checked the Dragonfly’s ropes one last time, tightening and tying off the forward line. It was more of a fidget than a proper check, something to do to make him feel that he could, after all, be master of the situation. He set the line on the Dragonfly’s bow, wishing with all his might that he could tighten and tie off the terrible thread of events that had brought him here to the Arsenal marina in Paris; tighten and tie it off, then cut the cord.

  He stood up, holding his fist against his mouth. The faint smell of the canal was on his skin: the vegetable / mineral smell of last year’s leaves and car tyres and diesel oil. The lapping of water against the hull failed to console him and he couldn’t stop himself from going over and over the crisis that had brought him here so urgently.

  For a moment he was back at home in Bath that May morning, the first decent day of summer, wondering about the paint-drying potential that this whisper of warm weather might present. He had felt the stirrings of restlessness; he rattled the change in his pocket and thought about making another cup of tea.

  He had learned down the years that the only remedy for this… sensation, was to do something practical like, for example, building a boat at the bottom of the garden. After Sally left him he went to the library and borrowed a book, then he extended the garage to make a workshop which covered the whole of the patio and half of the veg patch as well. There was no one to stop him anymore. That’s where he built the Dragonfly, diagram by diagram, plank by plank, a fourteen foot day boat for fishing. The resinous smell of a sheet of marine ply was still a tonic and the thought of it decided him. He’d pop down and do a little bit of sanding on the hull, prior to touching up her paint work. The new season had started already. No time like the present.

  He had felt better in his workshop: surveying the sleek lines of the Dragonfly in the soft burlap light restored him to himself. He ran his hand along the flank of the boat as though it were a living creature. He liked to have the radio on in the farthest corner of the workbench because it gave him the illusion that someone else might be listening in another room. He’d wired up an extension from the house so that he could hear the doorbell because he often had to take deliveries. He’d ordered an impeller rebuild kit and it was due any day. He was sanding away, getting a rhythm going until the air was filled with particles of paint of a lustrous duck egg blue. If he wasn’t careful, he’d sand her right back to the wood and then he’d really have a job on his hands. Sure enough, at nine-thirty the doorbell rang. That would be the postman with his parcel. He made his way up the garden, dusting his hands off on his trousers, and opened the front door.

  The postman handed him a package. “Everything alright? Nice spot of weather. These are for you as well,” and with that he was gone, back up the path.

  Colin stood in the doorway riffling through a sheaf of pizza deals, estate agent flyers, an advert for a tree surgeon. Tucked in the back was an airmail letter. He peered at the postmark. After a moment or two he allowed himself to look at the handwriting. At the sight of Michael’s spiky lettering, he was conscious of an accelerating rush of blood to his heart. He held the envelope to his mouth, thinking. The travelled scent of the paper stalled him for a second. He inhaled with care then put the letter on the telephone table. He’d open it later. Not now. He sat down abruptly at the bottom of the stairs.

  A letter from his boy. After all these years.

  He leaned forward, picked up the flimsy envelope, tore it open and unfolded the single sheet of paper it contained. “Colin,” it began. Not “Dear Colin,” or “Dad,” or even, “Dear Dad.” He digested the hurt.

  “This is to inform you that Charlotte has died, very suddenly. It was an accident. She fell down the stairs at home. Delphine is coping as well as possible, although both of us are very sad. I thought that you would want to know.

  Michael.”

  The letter was word perfect and he guessed that it had been copied out. He wondered how many drafts it had taken to reduce the news to its bare essentials. Charlotte, dead. A sound escaped from him and he swallowed. He would write straight back, offer to come to Paris – this was his moment, his chance
to help. He’d write straight away. He read the message from his son again, faltering over the last line, alert to its layers of meaning. Not Dear Dad, just Colin. He held the impeller rebuild kit tightly to his chest.

  ~~~

  More than a fortnight passed. He was in the kitchen cooking supper, humming along to the radio, when the doorbell rang. Standing on the doorstep were two police officers, a woman and a young constable with razor rash on his neck and large hands that he didn’t seem to have quite grown into.

  “Are you Colin Aylesford?”

  He was holding a dish cloth. He’d been chopping vegetables for a stew. “Yes?” He was conscious that he’d left the frying pan on the gas.

  “Is Michael Aylesford your son?”

  Colin stiffened. The young copper’s Adam’s apple rose and fell in his throat as he spoke. “May we come in for a moment?”

  “Yes, of course. Come in–” he said, without moving.

  “Just for a moment. Won’t keep you long.”

  He remembered the whiteness of the policeman’s neck, the razor rash, the slow motion swallow, the words rising.

  “We have some bad news, I’m afraid.”

  With an independent and unauthorised action, Colin’s knees gave way and he slumped on the wooden chair in the hall, where he used to keep his briefcase before he took early retirement.

  The policeman closed the front door and removed his hat.

  “We’ve been contacted by the French police. Your son has been arrested in connection with the death of his partner Charlotte Duvoisin.”

  He felt as if he was falling from a great height, as though the ground, or something far, far worse, was rushing up to meet him.

  “Arrested?” he said, comprehension, in that instant, beyond him. “But… it was an accident, she fell down the stairs, his letter said.”

  “The autopsy report indicates that Madame Duvoisin was pushed. That considerable force was used.”

  “Force?” he said. “There must be some mistake.” He was getting the measure of it. There had been a terrible misunderstanding. “She fell. His letter said.” He had it in mind to find Michael’s letter and show it to them, to clear the matter up once and for all. He half rose to his feet. “It was an accident.”

  The policeman pinched his upper lip between finger and thumb, pulling at it, taking his time. “The thing is,” he began, “according to the coroner’s report it certainly wasn’t an accident, and anyway,” he appeared to be searching for ways not to say what he had come to say, “your son has made a full confession to the French police.”

  ~~~

  Colin hitched the trailer on to the back of his car figuring that he’d need a base in Paris that didn’t cost much if he was going to stay for any length of time. He drove to Portsmouth to catch the first available ferry.

  He hadn’t seen his boy for nearly ten years, and now this.

  Shaking his head, he groped in his pocket for the street map. He needed to orientate himself. He would fight for Michael’s freedom, no matter what it took.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Michael could see the corner of the prison hospital wing from his window. If he leaned at an angle he could see an overflow pipe with a green algae stain spreading down the wall. His deceptively spacious, six square metre accommodation contained a bed for himself and a bed for his cellmate – he gave an involuntary shiver – two chairs, a table, two cupboards. It was… sufficient. He even had a number. He was a number. VN1692F was code for who he was, for who he had become.

  He sat heavily on his bed. He had no idea there were so many minutes in the day. He’d just got back from recreation – he walked round three sides of the yard rather than go straight across the middle in order not to make himself too visible. The kangas checked him regularly and he wondered if they considered him a suicide risk; they had taken his shoelaces and belt as a matter of course, although it crossed his mind that they might be checking to see if Laroche had eaten him alive.

  He wouldn’t though – kill himself – even if he could, because of his daughter, Delphine. If he sat very still and closed his eyes and listened out he could almost catch a glimpse of her. It was never so much as seeing her in motion; it was more like a collage of all the photographs he’d ever taken of her. The spritz of her unbrushed hair. Her sturdy little body. Her telegraphic smile. The grubby tide line round her neck – more than that, the particular, unmistakable texture of her skin. His arms felt empty of her. The one measly phone call they were allowed each week was nowhere near enough. Yesterday morning, he couldn’t recall the sound of her laugh and that made him sad for the rest of the day. On the whole, trying to picture her feature by feature (and failing sometimes) was easier than trying to picture how she would be managing at her grandmother’s, without him. It was also much, much easier than thinking about Charlotte. He drew a shaky breath. There was altogether too much time to think.

  The door flung open and Laroche loped in. There was an etiquette, Michael was learning, which meant that you didn’t speak until the door had been closed and the key turned and withdrawn.

  They waited.

  “Woss up?” Laroche slung himself on his bed. His head was shaved so that you could see the scars on his scalp, even the stitch marks. He had red-rimmed eyes and pale lashes. “Wotch you looking at, you Rosbif ponce?”

  Michael tried to overcome his automatic recoil. “Nothing, I wasn’t–” He had been staring at Laroche’s arm. “–looking.” His cellmate was skinny and his arms were thin, with corded, brutal muscle. Amongst the badly done tattoos and the faded striae of teenage cutting, he was trying to discern if there were needle marks. It was a way of rationalising his own absolute terror: working out just how scared he needed to be. “How was your meeting?” he asked, because sometimes – now – conversation felt safer than silence. “With your lawyer?”

  Laroche hawked, then rolled the phlegm around his mouth, giving his jaw a workout. “S’alright.” He afforded him an idle, appraising glance, and swallowed. “You interested are you, then?”

  Michael had an interest, for research purposes, for reconnaissance. Know thine enemy…

  “Armed robbery, second offence, not looking good. Thass what he said. If you want to know.” He let his head fall to one side, the better to study Michael. “Not in your league, though. Not a wife killer, like you.”

  ~~~

  He felt more secure in the cell, with only one of the lags to keep his eye on. On the way to the canteen Laroche remarked, as if resuming an earlier conversation, “– though you don’t look as though you could hurt even a tiny little fly. Wanna know something?”

  Michael couldn’t get used to the white ceramic brightness of the hallways: floor to ceiling tiles that could be easily hosed of thrown food, or vomit, or blood. He couldn’t get used to the netting strung between the walkways to catch the jumpers, or the pushed, although he thought that Delphine might quite like a jump in them and tried to imagine her bounding and rebounding, joyously, to take his mind off – all of it.

  “Chapot has opened a book on you. You didn’t know that, did you?”

  “Chapot?” said Michael, looking behind him.

  “Fifty euros says Joubert will get medieval with you by the end of the month. You didn’t know that, did you? Did you? Well, you know now.”

  “Which one’s Chapot?”

  Laroche shook his head. “You gotta man up, dude, that’s what you gotta do. Joubert fucking hates wife killers. Which is strange, when you think about it, because he’s in here on suspicion of killing his own.”

  Michael hesitated. “What is… ‘get medieval’ – exactly?”

  “Shit man, you don’t stand a chance.”

  ~~~

  “Your father has been in touch. He wanted to be sure you had everything you needed,” said his lawyer.

  Michael couldn’t help noticing that the view from meeting room three didn’t involve any part of the hospital wing. He let his eyes rest on the distant dome of the Paris Obs
ervatory. He’d wondered if the letter to his father had been a mistake as soon as he had written it. He felt some primal need to tell one of his own people, a kind of filial reflex – Dad! Dad! – that he regretted almost immediately.

  “Monsieur Aylesford asked if it would be possible to see the statement you made to the police. I said I needed authorisation from you before I could release a copy. Michael–?”

  “Sorry? I’m sorry. I was…” He glanced round as though he had only just realized his avocat was in the room with him. “Sorry?”

  “Your statement. Your father was wondering if he could–” The avocat had a provincial look to her: beige mac folded over the back of her chair, tailored skirt, pastel, floral blouse. She was doing her job. She was trying to help him. She bit her lip. “OK,” she said, changing tack. He wondered if she found him difficult. He didn’t mean to be. “We need to talk about your plea. As your representative, I urge you strongly to reconsider. A guilty plea is not the solution here. We can make a case. If nothing else, you need to think about your little daughter.”

  “OK, OK–” he interrupted. “My father can see my statement. That’s OK. But I won’t change my plea. End of.”

  “You’ll get less than twenty years, but not much less. That’s what you’re looking at. You need to think about it very carefully.”

  “I have thought about it…”

  “It’s your decision. I can only advise you.”

  Michael’s gaze was drawn back to the horizon. The woman began closing her laptop; he heard the slow electric sigh of it shutting down.

  “Your father also asked if he might see Delphine – would you have any objections?”

  “Objections?” The note of incredulity in his own voice silenced him.

  When Charlotte had gone into labour, his father had turned up at the hospital.

  “It’s a girl,” he breathed, “A baby girl.”